She smiles. “Do you have experience with anxiety?”
“I’ll have anxious moments now and then, but I mostly learned about it by researching things to help my mom.”
She nods slowly. “That’s right. You told me she has social anxiety.”
I nod. Michael Bublé serenades us over the drone of the warehouse volunteers, singing about his dreams of a white Christmas. I’ve never dreamed of a white Christmas. I’ve dreamed about my mom leaving the house.
Don’t think like that,I chastise myself.You wouldn’t feel that way if she were wheelchair bound. If she needed dialysis and couldn’t leave the city. She hasn’t found a treatment that worked. Don’t you dare blame her for that.
I move a stack of bags so I can label more. I should say something to Liesel, acknowledge her question. She’s been so open about things withhermom, and she’s the first woman I think I could talk to about my mom without it becoming a sob story, which I can’t abide, or without her feeling upset with my mom, which I can tolerate even less.
I’ve never wanted to open up to a woman before. I’ve never told anyone a thing about my mom. Just mentioning the social anxiety is more than I’ve done with anyone else.
I want to tell Liesel.
But if I tell her, that’s it for me. The first woman I tell about my mom is the last woman I plan to tell about my mom. Her condition isn’t something to expose to speculation, anger, or ridicule.
I can’t imagine any of those responses from Liesel. And that’s one more reason Iwantto tell her.
Can I tell her already? After only three weeks?
We’re both engaged in our tasks—peeling labels from the sheet and putting them on bags—but I’ve rarely felt so connected to someone else. Not just in this moment, but overall. Since our first exchange in the airport, I’ve been drawn to her. And sincewe called our truce and have become friends, I’ve felt an interest that defies explanation. I’ve dated famous, beautiful, interesting women. But none of them have held my interest like Liesel does.
I know that’s easy to say. It’s only been a few weeks.
It’s tempting to think it’s just infatuation. She’s smart and funny and calls me on my crap, which I find maddeningly attractive. She’s also stunning. Drop dead gorgeous. But infatuation is about only seeing an idealized version of someone, and nothing about my experience with Liesel has been ideal. I don’t evenwantsome glamorized Liesel. I like the messy one. The one wearing a hairnet and talking about having anxiety. The one who dry shampoos her hair for cocktail hour and still manages to look like the hottest thing since sunburn. The one who leaves flour on her face while she bakes in her sweats and big fuzzy socks.
I’ve seen so many glimpses of Liesel, but it’s like seeing all the pieces of a puzzle and knowing the image they’ll make versus actually seeing the complete picture.
I want the complete picture. Something tells me I won’t get that if I don’t open my mouth, though. My heart hammers at the thought, my pulse doubling just thinking of opening up, letting someone know how much I care.
If you don’t care about anything, you can’t get hurt by anything.
“We’re out of labels,” Liesel says. Her tight smile makes me think she agrees with my mental self-assessment: I should have opened up.
“I’ll come with you to get more,” I say, hoping she gets from this that I’m still willing to put forth some effort.
Even if that effort is going to an office ten yards away to get more sheets, bags, and boxes.
Yeah, that’s weak even to me.
Everywhere, people are engaged in scooping ingredients into bags, boxing, and moving them. They smile and laugh, but they all work. Nate and Juliet look like they’re in a rousing debate about something as they pack meals. They’re both animated—Nate keeps spilling food back in the bins when he talks with his hands—and they look like there’s nothing they’d rather be doing.
When we’re back to our table, I ask Liesel, “So Nate and Juliet met last year because of … parking space wars?”
“Pretty much. Nate is our downstairs neighbor, and the old building gossip was always trying to set Juliet up with him. She never really knew him until they got stuck on our elevator during a blackout, though. Six hours and a near diabetic coma later, they went from hating each other’s guts to falling pretty hard.”
A chuckle sounds in my throat. “That sounds like some cheesy Christmas movie.”
“Cheesy? No, that sounds like anamazingChristmas movie. And I hate Christmas movies.”
I yank the label from her hand and put it on my bag, instead. “I think youwantto hate Christmas because you’re afraid of how it will feel if you admit that you love it.”
She blinks several times at the bag in front of her. One hand reaches to spin her earrings, but she must remember they’re in her back pocket, because she puts her hand down.
I meant what I said, but now I worry it was the wrong thing. Or too much of the right. I keep pushing her to open more and more while I’m not doing the same.
“So what is Nate like?” I ask, heading off whatever direction her thoughts were going. “I’ve only met a few billionaires before, but none of them would live in the Riviera Apartments in Pilsen. Or give their car to a friend just because hers was stolen.”
